


My heart knocking the way it should have

by Zara Hemla (zarahemla)



Category: Shooter (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Pre-Series, meet cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 16:35:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11581953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zarahemla/pseuds/Zara%20Hemla
Summary: “Yeah, so. Bob Lee. I don’t date Marines.”





	My heart knocking the way it should have

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone has their version of the story: this is mine. (I look forward to being jossed some time in season 2, but it's all good.) Based on a) my hazy memories of Ryan Phillippe in his 20s and b) my own experience as an Army brat. "Army brat?" you say. "Now I know why you like to say 'jarhead' so much." Yes. Yes, I do.
> 
> PS: Based entirely on the TV show. Haven't read the book.
> 
> PPS: Dedicated to all my fellow Shooter fans. All six of you.

  
  
[…] I slid  
behind the wheel and drove down the mountain  
knowing something had happened I couldn’t reverse  
-Lynne Knight

  
  
  
  


When Julie came back home after her first year of college, she told her parents she was joining the Peace Corps. Or Teach for America. Something that furthered the progressive agenda in the USA, she told her dad as he clenched his fists to keep from replying. She tossed her hair and told him that only pigs and idiots joined the military, and his face got red and he snapped back at her that his men were some of the finest people in America, and she said something else stupid and snappy in reply, and they got into a shouting match that culminated in her slamming her bedroom door like she was ten years old again. 

When she tried to bring it up again, this time to the other side of the parental unit, her mom had just sighed at her, flapping her hands in a shooing motion. “My therapist said I shouldn’t get between you two.”

“Meaning what?” Julie said indignantly.

“Meaning, you and he are so much alike! You’ll butt heads no matter what I do. So I’m going to have some peace by not getting involved.”

“Mo – om ….”

“No, Julie.” Her mom eyed her narrowly and Julie knew she was not going to like what came next. “You are always so sure you’re right. Why don’t you ever listen to his side of things?”

Of course. Julie stood up from her chair and patted her mom on the back. “Okay,” she said. “You’re staying out of it, remember?”

“Ha,” said her mother sourly. “Right. That’s what I’m doing.”

So it was time for plan C. Julie called up her best friend from high school, who was also back in town, and said, “I have to get out of my dad's house!”

Rosemary laughed. “Why did you come back here?” she said. 

“I just needed a place to crash. I forgot how stupid he is!”

“Parents. Children. The eternal conflict. Let's go out tonight. I bet we can get some jarheads to buy us drinks.”

“No jarheads!” Julie said passionately. “No flyboys, no sailors, no bros who say they’re SEALS, no spooks with crazy eyes. Just me and you and a bottle of something in a dark room.”

“So easy. You know if you like liquor,” coaxed Rosemary, “you have to go out where the men are. They can buy it and you can't.”

“For one more year. Just one more. And I'd ask you over here to raid my dad's liquor cabinet, but he's having a dinner party,” said Julie morosely. “Some dinner to congratulate a bunch of sharpshooters. We get to congratulate them for being sent out there by your dad and my dad to kill babies and old women.”

“All right, cool off, Sparky,” Rosemary laughed affectionately. Her dad was a high muckety-muck in the Company, so she knew all about parental defiance. She and Julie had both dyed their hair blue in high school to piss off their dads. Rosemary's dad had dragged her to a salon and had hers dyed back to dark brown. Julie's dad had shaved her head down to the skull. Rosemary had offered her an unused hijab (Rosemary and her unused hijabs were a separate story) but Julie had just worn a gray tuque until it grew out to a respectable length. Maybe her dad had thought having a shaved head would keep her on the straight and narrow, but it hadn't. Her boyfriend had not given one shit about her hair length as they had done it in the back of his car. Not a great memory, that. 

“Let's go out after your dad's dinner party. Meet me on the porch at ten.”

“Fine,” said Julie. “After the party.” Her mother had begged her to go to the party and for God's sake to please wear a dress. Julie put on one from her closet but didn't bother with makeup and just stuck a pencil through the bun-swirl on her head. Who cared about a bunch of jarheads? Who cared about their stupid awards and a pat on the head from the commander? People were dying all over the world and many of them at the end of a bullet. Anyone that willingly signed up to kill on the orders of the government was an opportunistic murderer.

When she came down the stairs, all of them were sitting at the table under the yellowed rainbow glow of her mother's crystal chandelier. Her dad was at the head of the table, ugh, because the patriarchy wasn't dead, and as if to prove it, all the men in the room stood up as she entered. There were several of them there besides her father and as she surveyed them with all the bored affect she could muster (which was quite a bit), her gaze caught on one, standing half at attention with his mouth hanging half open. His serious gaze on her was dark blue like a summer storm. He was gorgeous, but he was a jarhead, evidenced by the stupidly short hair he had and the black swirls of tattoo running down his arm. He looked young – way too young to have pulled enough triggers to win an award. She pulled her gaze off him and looked at the wall instead.

“My daughter Julie,” said her dad. “Julie, these are the sharpshooter medal winners.” He named them off but she didn't listen - even to the name of the gorgeous one. 

“Hello,” she said, and sat down. She was at the end of the table near her mother, so that if anyone ran out of anything, the women could run and fetch it. Sure enough, she ate a little bit of baked potato and a bite of steak and then she had to go get water, or butter, or whatever saved her mom from having to get up. 

A couple of the medal winners tried to converse with her, but mostly they were all staring in awe at God Commander. He was paternal with them, answering their questions, finding out where they were from. Julie looked up once or twice, feeling that dark blue gaze not on her dad, but on her. She didn't look back at him though. No way, no how.

When it came to the pretty jarhead’s turn to talk, he said very little. He told her father where he was from, and then had to explain that it was in rural Texas. His voice was soft and slow. A lot of people ended up talking over him and he leant back in his chair a little, away from them, and played with his dessert fork. All right, so she watched him a little bit sideways, his long fingers turning the fork over and over, his face introspective. 

The man next to her turned and asked her what her plans were after the summer. He was maybe ten years older than she and just being polite, she could tell, so she didn't say something rude. “I'm going to join the Peace Corps,” she said, just to try it out. Maybe she would. Maybe she'd go practice her high school Spanish somewhere and build houses and toilets for people who needed them.

“Great idea,” he replied. A little too enthusiastically, as far as she was concerned. “Making the world a safer place! Just like what we're doing.”

 _Bzzzt!_ Game over. She put her fork down with a clonk and snapped, “Not like what you're doing. There are two hundred thousand soldiers stationed in the Middle East right now. How many of them are teaching children to read? How many are adapting the soil to conservation techniques? How many are working with village entrepreneurs to market products? How many of them are helping mothers be more sanitary and healthful?” She was aware that she was talking too much, that everyone was looking at her. That her dad was frowning. The man beside her stuttered, looking between her and her dad, obviously unable to correct her in front of God Commander.

“We don't do any of that,” interpolated the slow golden drawl from the other end of the table. “Although we should.” His fingers were still around his fork and he was watching her again. This time she met his eyes. “One thing we can do,” he said, “is make it safe for people to come out of their houses. If it's safe, then citizens can start building and selling again, like you said. And the Peace Corps can go in and do their jobs.”

Everyone at the table relaxed except Julie. Having not thought of it that way, she didn't really have a reply. Which made her paradoxically very angry with him as well as giving him points for intelligence.

“Lordy, Swagger,” said the man next to her, laughing. “You got me out of a jam there. That was intense.”

 _Swagger,_ she thought. _It figures._

She heard none of the other conversation, answered questions basically at random, and excused herself as soon as possible. Her father's paternal act was nauseating, not because he treated his Marines like sons, but because he treated his daughter like a Marine. Orders to be obeyed. Missions to be run and objectives to be met. Julie prided herself on failing every mission, on cultivating the look of anger and disappointment and bafflement that he wore so often around her. _One thing, one person, that he can't keep in line. Look at things his way? Why doesn’t he ever look at things_ my _way? Thanks a lot, mom._

She did go put on makeup then, a lot of it, and shimmied into a short gold skirt and admired her legs in the mirror. On top she wore a black bandeau bra, a white tank top with stylized writing on it, and slinky bracelets. Her hair she left as it was. The party was still going on, drinks and whatever in the living room as Julie went out the front door - an upgrade from high school days when she used to slither out over the roof. The night was still and black and cicadas buzzed in the trees. At the end of the porch a small orange glow shone, and Swagger materialized out of the shadows on the porch. His eyes were dark as the night and he was smoking a cigarette. 

“No schmoozing with the boss?” she said semi-sarcastically as she put in an earring. She could tell by his manner at the table that he wasn't into currying favor. Another point to him.

“I let my bullets talk for me,” he said, as she held out her hand and he gave her the smoke.

“Right,” she said, exhaling. “They tell funny jokes, right before they drill someone's eye out. Ha ha.” She handed the cigarette back to him and turned to look down the driveway. No sign of Rosemary.

“No jokes,” he said. “I don't take it lightly.” She turned her head again and he met her gaze. 

“I don't like to kill,” he said, like he was trying to give her a message. Like it really meant something. "I just do what has to be done."

“I don't care,” she said, to see the look on his face. She didn't get much satisfaction, because he didn't look insulted or upset. He stubbed the cigarette out on the bottom of his boot and then put it in his pocket.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Out.” She turned her head to look for Rosemary again and put in her other earring.

“Okay,” he replied. “Can I see you sometime?” Just like that.

“Hey … what’s your name?”

“Swagger. Bob Lee.” 

“Yeah, so. Bob Lee. I don’t date Marines.”

“Okay,” he said. “But I wrote this down for you.” In the same calm, perfectly confident tone. He fished in his pocket and held out a piece of paper that obviously had his number on it. She just looked at him, and then down at the paper, and then back up at his serious face. 

“I can tell you, blindfolded, what gun they put in my hands,” he said. “Tell you any make number on the planet. But Julie, honestly, I cannot tell what you’re thinking right now.”

She huffed out a laugh. “Nice line. Practice much? It’s because you don’t know me.”

He didn’t say _but I’d like to_. He didn’t say _but you’re hot_ or _did you fall from heaven, yada yada_. He just held out the paper. From the street, lights swept across the porch as Rosemary’s car began to crunch down the driveway.

“I have to go,” she said.

“I know.”

She eyed him again, one more time, all that beauty and obviously a brain somewhere in there too. All that confidence. All those tattoos.

“This is a bad idea,” she said, and took the paper. She put it in her purse as he replied, “No it isn’t.” 

She turned away and began navigating the porch with her platform heels. 

“Do you need help?” he asked. 

At her “No,” he said “Okay” again, and she heard the soft slap of the porch door as he opened and closed it, going back inside to the macho convention.

“Good Lord,” said Rosemary when she slid into the Mercedes, “were you _speaking_ to a _Marine_ just there?”

“Did you see him?” replied Julie, not unironically.

“Oh, I saw him all right. We should have taken him out with us. He looks like he could buy a shot or two.”

“No, he has to kiss my dad’s ass like all those other guys in there.”

“Poor man,” Rosemary said, and laughed again. She was an easy laugher, and that was one of her charms. Julie often felt too wound up and cranky to ever laugh again. The world was so serious and full of pitfalls. She wanted to laugh once in awhile.

“I’m so glad to see you, girlfriend. Take me out and get me drunk.”

“You’re so easy,” smirked Rosemary. “I could have you for the price of a lemon drop.”

“You really could,” sighed Julie and leant back in her seat. She found Rosemary’s free hand with hers and squeezed it. The warm night flashed by in streaks. There was a piece of paper in her purse. She felt certain that soon enough she would know what to do with it.

\--end—

**Author's Note:**

> Title and epigraph from Lynne Knight’s poem “There, in My Grandfather’s Old Green Buick.”


End file.
